Month: March 2026

what breaks open
is not always breaking

the thing underneath the tension
was always the thing

we name the wound
and miss the hand that made it

we argue the weather
when we mean the winter

every rupture has a root
older than the fight

and the root still wants water

even now

even after

to be known is not the same
as being agreed with

the ones worth keeping
will still be standing

when the words run out
go back

there is still something there
to tend​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

—lyra moon (listening beneath the noise of the rupture)
march 30, 2026

somewhere a river
refuses to apologize for resting in the shade

the old tree at the edge of the field
leans into wind for decades
and when the wind is quiet
it won’t fill the silence
with anything

we were taught
that the silent pauses between notes
aren’t at all musical
but they are

there are forces older than our busyness
older than the word for tired
that have been asking us
to put it down
long before we learned to pick so much up

what would fall
if you let your arms go soft
if you trusted the ground to hold
for just a handful of breaths

some bodies have forgotten
what safe feels like in stillness
not from weakness
but because the world made rest
a thing they had to earn
and the earning never ended

this isn’t a small thing
to lay the weight of your seeing down
to close the eyes and trust
the sounds around you to continue
without your supervision

but when we see it
something in us
recognizes it
the way a stream recognizes water

ease is contagious
this is the whole lesson

there is a kind of courage
that looks like nothing
from the outside

—lyra moon (unlearning the debt of rest)
march 24, 2026

look at us now
the storm has gone somewhere else
and we are still here
more ourselves than we have ever been

all those seasons of bending
were just the roots
learning how deep they needed to go

and now the light
is coming from a direction
we always suspected
and we are opening toward it
the way we could not
before

this is not becoming
this is finally
being found

we knew
the slow dark underneath
and the roots
knew all along

it was only ever
waiting for spring

—lyra moon (first draft of the untranslated self)
march 14, 2026

the tree won’t grip the storm
it opens its hands and bends

this isn’t surrender
this is the whole secret

you can’t demand willingness
you can only become
someone worth leaning toward

the chick doesn’t need consent
from the shell

power isn’t what you hold
it is what moves
when you stop
clutching

—lyra moon (figuring out non-resistance)
march 11, 2026

sometimes i wonder if we’re ever the ones constructing
or just debris in someone else’s cycle
right now it feels like debris
scattered along currents we cannot name
tumbling through forces that neither ask nor care

and yet stardust remembers its origins
even broken fragments carry light
that once shone in galaxies
we’ll never see

destruction for one is construction for another
and the universe does not linger on fairness
it turns and turns again
carrying scars like constellations
that mark where endings became beginnings

perhaps debris is not loss
but a promise in disguise
waiting for winds to gather it
for time to teach it how to shimmer
for a new cycle to whisper
here you matter still

—lyra moon (index of unmeasured light)
march 10, 2026

somewhere
far from speeches and bright stages
a tree releases a leaf

no audience
no announcement

just the small courage
of letting go

the wind does not ask why

it only carries

all over the world
quiet endings are happening

a shoreline reshaping itself
a field turning its color
a bird lifting from a wire
because the sky has room for it

none of them call it loss

they call it movement

for a long time
many of us believe
that holding is the same thing as loving

we tighten our fingers
around the fragile glow
of something that mattered

a season
a gathering
a long shared effort
built out of laughter and stubborn hope

and for a while
the hands are exactly where they need to be

steady
tired
faithful

until one day
the body remembers
that love was never meant
to be a fist

it was always meant
to be an open palm

something that can hold warmth
for a while

and then
with gratitude
release it back into the world

this is how forests survive
how rivers keep singing
how human stories continue
long after the first voices grow quiet

someone steps forward
someone steps aside

the light keeps moving

not because anyone failed it

but because it was always alive

and living things
do not stay still

they travel
through one set of hands
into another

until the horizon itself
learns how to glow

—lyra moon (what passes through us stays)
march 9, 2026

when my heart went quiet
the only thing that stayed was underneath me

not leaves or wind
just the feeling of deep roots
holding the dark earth together

and somewhere inside that silence
a knowing

the trees were still keeping the world
so i didn’t have to

and it was enough
to follow the roots
back up into breath

—lyra moon (the soil remembers how to hold us)
march 7, 2026

the roots found me first
before i could ask them to

something green and old
pulled at the edges of my breath
and said
not yet

i don’t know how trees talk

only that they do
in the low hum
behind my ribs

in the slow creak
of branches that sound
like my own name
said gently

i am so tired

but the moss does not rush
and the oak does not explain itself

it simply
keeps

maybe that is enough

to keep

i am learning
to be rooted in air
to be almost

and still
the forest knows me

broken open
and calls it

beginning

—lyra moon (stillness is how the earth endures)
march 6, 2026

the world taught me its lesson with both hands around my throat
i swallowed the quiet like medicine
and found it tasted like the only good thing
now the door stays closed
and the wolves i once called company
howl somewhere else outside
the body begs for bread but my ears are now deaf
i have made a church of this silence
and i am its last saint
canonized by no one
decomposing beautifully
into the floor​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

—lyra moon (some sanctuaries are built from what remains)
march 5, 2026

the lights are off
something burned through
everything behind my eyes
i used to move through rooms
now i am what the rooms move in me
my hands remember being mine
memory is the worst
like a child touching glass
that isnt there
i thought i was fire
i was just a wire
eating itself
from the inside
everything is very quiet now
the way a field is quiet
after something fell from the sky
and kept falling
into the ground
and kept falling
i am the thing that poisons the water
everything downstream of me
goes wrong
the water still moves
a bird drinks from it
and doesnt know
it should be afraid
but now you know
i am here
i think
i am still here
the way a house is here
after the fire
all the walls standing
pointing at the sky
holding nothing
keeping nothing out
i am here​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

—lyra moon (ruin is just another shape for standing)
march 1, 2026